When the pangs of hunger and thirst got hold of them, they refused—and were indeed entirely unable—to work longer with the oars, so that, unless the wind was fair and the sail was set, they simply drifted on.

One by one the sailors died. Waking from a troubled sleep of short duration, Katharine one day found Chloe's dead hand around her feet, her cold lips pressed upon them. Some of the men grew mad before they died, and raved and babbled of green fields and running brooks until the end came, and still the little boat drifted on. Few and short were the prayers the living said as, day by day they cast the dead into the sea. Desborough, the resolute, with undying strength kept steadily at the helm. Once only did he speak to Katharine in words of love. As their situation grew more and more hopeless, and even his resolute optimism began to fail him, he bent down and whispered in her ear,—

"I would not trouble you now, Katharine, but before we die I must tell you once again that I love you. Will you believe it?"

"I will believe it," she answered dully, giving him her hand. Oh, he thought in agony, as he bent over it and kissed it, how thin and white and feeble it was I One morning, after hope was dead, he was listlessly scanning the line of the horizon as the rising sun threw it into relief, more from habit than expectancy, when his heart almost stopped its feeble beating, for land was there before him if his strained eyes did not deceive him. Doubting the evidence of his weakened senses, and fearing the delusions of a disordered imagination, he refrained from communicating his impressions to any of the others until the light of day determined the accuracy of his vision. Then he whispered the news to Katharine, the apathetic woman told it to the sinking colonel, and then Desborough cried it to his dying crew. The wind sprang up at the moment too, and in a few hours they beached the boat upon a low sandy shore, with the waves breaking gently over it in long easy rollers. It was a desolate coast, sparsely wooded with small trees, and having little evidence of human habitation about it; but no glimpse of heaven could have more rejoiced a dying soul than this bleak haven to which they had been brought. They staggered, half fell, out of the boat, and lay exhausted, with ghastly haggard faces, on the shining sands, giving thanks to God for His mercy.

Desborough, as the strongest of the party, started inland, finding by and by a little stream of fresh water, and farther on, on higher ground, seeing a house, the smoke curling from its chimneys showing that it was inhabited. To the bubbling spring he half led, half dragged his shipwrecked party. They drank sparingly by his direction, and were refreshed, for with the cool water life and hope came back to them once more. Then he left them again and went on to the house. They had landed on the shore of Virginia, and the people of the house welcomed and cared for the poor castaways, sharing with them their humble store with the kindly hospitality for which the land was famous. Their long voyage was at an end, their troubles were over. The colonel and Katharine would be free again; they might go home once more, and Desborough would be a prisoner.



BOOK V

THE DEAD ALIVE AGAIN

CHAPTER XL

A Final Appeal

It was springtime again in Virginia. The sky, its blue depths accentuated by the shifting clouds, was never more clear, wherever it appeared in the intervals of sunshine, nor the air more fresh and pure, even in that land famed for its bright skies and its mild climate, than it was this April day; which, with its sunshine and showers in unregulated alternation, seemed symbolical of life,—that life of which every tender blade of grass, every venturesome flower thrusting its head above the sod, seemed to speak. There was health and strength in the gentle breeze which wantonly played with the budding leaves of the great trees, already putting forth little evangels of that splendid foliage with which they decked themselves in the full glory of summer. That merry wind which swept through the open boat-house at the end of the wharf laid a bold hand upon the curls which fell about the neck of the young girl sitting there by the door near the water on one of the benches, gazing out over the broad reaches of the quiet, ever beautiful Potomac, rippled gently by the wind under the late afternoon sun. The gallant little breeze, fragrant with balm and perfume of the trees and flowers, kissed a faint color into her pale cheek, and seemed to whisper to her despondent heart in murmuring sounds that framed themselves into the immortal words "hope, hope."

The young girl had but yesterday entered upon her twentieth spring. Four months ago there had not been a merrier, lighter-hearted, gayer, more coquettish young maiden in tidewater Virginia; and to-day, she thought, as she looked down at her thin hand outlined so clearly upon the vivid cardinal cloak she wore, which had dropped unheeded on the seat by her side, to-day she was like that man in the play of whom her father read,—a grave man. No, not a man at all. Once, in her enthusiasm, she had fondly imagined that she had possessed all those daring qualities of energy and action, those manly virtues, which might have been hers by inheritance could the accident of sex have been reversed. But now she knew she was but a woman, after all,—so weak, so feeble, so listless. What had she left to live for? Once it was her father, then it was her country, then it was her lover; now? Nothing! Her father at the request of Congress would soon resume his interrupted duties in France, now become more important than ever. He was a man of the world and a soldier, a diplomat. The hard experiences of the past few months were for him episodes, exciting truly, but only part of a lifetime spent in large adventure, soon forgotten in some other strenuous part demanded by some other strenuous exigency. But she,—no, she was not a man at all, but a woman,—unused to such scenes and happenings as fate had lately made her a participant in. Her father might have his country,—he had not lost his love, his heart was not buried out in the depths of the cruel sea. What had become of that Roman patriotism upon which she prided herself in times past? Her country! What had changed her so? There were many answers.

There was Blodgett's grave at the foot of the hill. She had played in childhood with that faithful old soldier. Many a tale had he told her of her gallant father when, as a young man, he gayly rode away to the wars, leaving her lady mother in tears behind. She could sympathize with waiting women now, and understand. Those were such deeds of daring that the rude recital of the old man once stirred her very heart with joy and terror; now she was sick at the thought of them. And Blodgett was gone; he had died defending them, where he had been stationed. That was an answer.

There, too, far away in another State, lay the lover of her girlhood's happy day,—the bright-eyed, eager, gallant, joyous lad. What good comrades they had been! How they had laughed, and played, and ridden, and rowed, and hunted, and danced, and flirted, through the morning of life,—how pleasant had been that life indeed! He was quiet now; she could no longer join in his ringing laugh, the sound of his voice was stilled, they might never play together again,—was there any play at all in life? That was another answer.

There was the white-haired mother, the stately little royalist, Madam Talbot, who slept in peace on the hill at Fairview Hall, her ambitions, her hopes, and her loyalty buried with her, leaving the place untenanted save by wistful memories; she too had gone.

Answers?—they crowded thick upon her! There were the officers of the Yarmouth, Captain Vincent, Beauchamp, Hollins, and the little boy, the Honorable Giles, and all the other officers and men with whom she had come in contact on that frightful cruise. There were the heroic men who had stayed by their ship, who had seen the favored few go away in the only boat that was left seaworthy, without a murmur at being left behind, who had faced death unheeding, unrepining, sinking down in the dark water with a cheer upon their lips. There was the old sailor, too, with his unquenchable patriotism, her friend because the friend of her lover; and Philip, her brother; and there was Seymour himself. Ah, what were all the rest to him! Gone, and how she loved him!

She leaned her head upon her hand and thought of him. Here in this boat-house he had first spoken to her of his love. Here she had first felt his lips touch her cheek. There, rocked gently by the light breeze, upon the water at her feet was the familiar little pleasure-boat; she had not allowed any one to row her about in it since her return, in spite of much entreaty. It was this very cloak she wore that day, nearly the very hour. The place was redolent with sweet memories of happy days, though to think on them now broke her heart. It all came back to her as it had come again and again. She briefly reviewed that acquaintance, short though it was, which had changed the whole course of her life. She saw him again, as he struck prompt to defend her honor in the hall, resenting a ruffian's soiling hand stretched out to her; she saw him lying wounded and senseless there at her feet. She saw him stretched prone on that shattered deck, on that ruined ship, pale, blood-stained, senseless again, again unheeding her bitter cry. She would have called once more upon him, save that she knew humanity has no voice which reaches out into the darkness by which it may call back those who are once gone to live beyond. She did not weep,—that were a small thing, a trifle; she sat and brooded. What had she lost in the service of her country? What sacrifices had been exacted from her by that insatiable country! Alas, alas, she thought, men may have a country, a woman has only a heart.

Four short months had changed it all. How young she had been! Would she ever be young again? How full of the joy of life! Its currents swept by her unheeded now. Why had not God been merciful to her, that she could have died there upon the sea, she thought. Ah, poor humanity never learns His mercy; perhaps it is because we have no measure by which to fathom its mighty depths. She saw herself old and lonely, forgotten but not forgetting. But even then lacked she not opportunity; woman-like, in spite of her constancy, she took a melancholy pleasure in the thought that there was one still who hungered for the shattered remnants of her broken heart, who lived for the sound of her voice and the glance other eyes and the light of her face. One there was, handsome, brave, distinguished, gentle, of ancient name, assured station, ample fortune, who longed to lay all he was or had at her feet.

But what were these things? Nothing to her, nothing. There was but one, as she had said on the ship to Desborough: "I love a sailor; you are not he." And yet her soul was filled with pity for the gallant gentleman, and she thought of him tenderly with deep affection.

Presently she heard quick footsteps on the floor of the boat-house, and turning her head she saw him. He held a letter, an official packet, with the seal broken, open in his hand.

"Oh, Miss Wilton, you here?" he said. "I have looked everywhere for you. Do you not think the evening air grows chill? Is it not too cold for you out here in the boat-house? Allow me;" and then, with that gentle solicitude which women prize, he lifted the neglected cloak and tenderly wrapped it about her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said gratefully, faintly smiling up at him, "but I hardly need it. I do not feel at all cold. The air is so pleasant and the sun is not yet set, you see. Did you wish to see me about anything special, Lord Desborough?"

"No—yes—that is— Oh, Mistress Katharine, the one special want of my life is to see you always and everywhere. You know that,—nay, never lift your hand,—I remember. I will try not to trespass upon your orders again. I came to tell you that—I am going away."

"Going away," she repeated sadly. "Has your exchange been made?"

"Yes; a courier came to the Hall a short time since, and here it is. My orders, you see; I must leave at once."

"I am sorry, indeed sorry that you must go."

He started suddenly as if to speak, a little flash of hope flickering in his despondent face; but she continued quickly,—

"It has been very pleasant for us to have you here, except that you have been a prisoner; but now you will be free, and for that, of course, I rejoice. But I have so few friends left," she went on mournfully, "I am loath to see one depart, even though he be an enemy."

"Oh, do not call me an enemy, I entreat you, Katharine. Oh, let me speak just once again," he interrupted with his usual impetuosity; "and talk not to me of freedom! While the earth holds you I am not free: ay, even should Heaven claim you, I still am bound. All the days of my captivity here I have been a most willing and happy prisoner,—your prisoner. I have looked forward with dread and anguish to the day when I might be exchanged and have to go away. Here would I have been content to pass my life, by your side. Oh, once again let me plead! My duty, my honor, call me now to the service of my king. I no longer have excuse for delay, but you have almost made me forget there was a king. Now that I must go, why should I go alone?" he went on eagerly. "I know, I know you love the—the other,—but he is gone. You do not hate me, you even like me; you regret my going; perhaps as days go by, you will regret it more. We are at least friends; let me take care of you in future. Oh, it kills me to see you so white, and indifferent to life and all that it has or should have for you. You are only a girl yet,—I cannot bear to see all the color gone out of your sweet face, the light out of your eyes; the sight of that thin hand breaks my heart. Won't you live for me to love,—live, and let me love you? Your father goes to-morrow, so he says, and you will be left alone here; why should it be? Go with me. Give me a right to do what my heart aches to do for you,—to coax the roses back into your cheek, to woo the laugh to your lips, to win happiness back to your heart; to devote my life to you, darling. Have pity on me, have pity on my love,—have pity!"

His voice dropped into a passionate whisper; as he pleaded with her, he sank down upon one knee by her side, beseeching by word and gesture and look that she should show him that pity he could see in her eyes, that he knew was in her heart, and to which he made his last appeal; and then, lifting the hem of her dress to his lips with an unconscious movement of passionate reverence, he waited.

She looked at him in silence a moment. So young, so handsome, so appealing, her heart filled with sorrow and sympathy for him. There was hope in his eyes which she had not seen for many days; how could she drive it away and crush his heart! It might be cruel, but she had no answer, no other answer, no new word, to tell him. Her eyes filled with tears; she could not trust herself to speak, she only shook her head.

"Ah," he said, rising to his feet and throwing up his hands with a gesture of despair, "I knew it. Well, the dream is over at last. This is the end. I sought life, and found death; that, at least, if it shall come I shall welcome. Would God I had gone down with the ship! You have no pity; you let a dead image—an idea—stand between you and a living love. Will you never forget?"

"Never," she said softly. "Love knows no death. He is alive—here. But do not grieve so for me; I am not worth it. You will go away and forget, and—"

"No; you have said it, 'Love knows no death.' I, too, cannot forget. As long as I live I shall love—and remember. How if I waited and waited? Katharine, I would wait forever for you," he said, suddenly catching at the trifle.

"No, it would be no use. My friend, we both must suffer; it cannot be otherwise. I esteem you, respect you, admire you. You have protected me, honored me; my gratitude—" She went on brokenly, "You might ask anything of me but my heart, and that is given away."

"Let me take you without it, then. I want but you."

"No, Lord Desborough, it cannot be. Do not ask me again. No, I cannot say I wish it otherwise."

His flickering hope died away in silence. "Katharine, will you promise me, if there ever comes a time—"

"I promise," she said; "but the time will never come."

He looked at her as dying men look to the light, there was a long silence, and then he said,—

"I must go now, Katharine. I suppose I must bid you good-by now?"

"Yes, I think it would be best."

"I shall pass this way again on my journey to Alexandria in half an hour; may I not speak once more to you then?"

"No," she said finally, after a long pause. "I think it best that we should end it now. It can do no good at all. Good-by, and may God bless you."

He bent and kissed her hand, and then stopped a moment and looked at her, saying never a word.

"Good-by, again," she said.

On the instant he turned and left her.



CHAPTER XLI

Into the Haven, at last

Two weary horsemen on tired horses were slowly riding up the river road just where it entered the Wilton plantation. One was young, a mere boy in years; but a certain habit of command, with the responsibility accompanying, had given him a more manly appearance than his age warranted. The other, to a casual glance, seemed much older than his companion, though closer inspection would show that he was still a young man, and that those marks upon his face which the careless passer-by would consider the attributes of age had been traced by the fingers of grief and trouble. The bronzed and weather-beaten faces of both riders bespoke an open-air life, and suggested those who go down upon the great deep in ships, a suggestion further borne out by the faded, worn naval uniforms they wore. In spite of the joy of springtime which was all about them, both were silent and both were sad; but the sadness of the boy, as was natural, was less deep, less intense, than that of the man. He was too young to realize the greatness of the loss he had sustained in the death of his father and sister; and were it not for the constant reminder afforded him by the presence of his gloomy companion, he would probably, with the careless elasticity of youth, have been more successful in throwing off his own sorrow. The man had not lost a father or a sister, but some one dearer still. He looked thin and ill, and under the permanent bronze of his countenance the ravages wrought by fever, wounds, and long illness were plainly perceptible; there were gray hairs in his thick neatly tied locks, too, that had no rightful place there in one of his age. The younger and stronger assisted and watched over his older companion with the tenderest care and attention.

They rode slowly up the pleasant road under the great trees, from time to time engaging in a desultory conversation. Philip endeavored to cheer his companion by talking lightly of boyhood days, as each turn of the road brought familiar places in the old estate in view. Here he and Katharine and Hilary had been wont to play; there was a favorite spot, a pleasant haunt here, this had been the scene of some amusing adventure. These well-meant reminiscences nearly drove Seymour mad, but he would not stop them. Finally, they came to the place where the road divided, one branch pursuing its course along the river-bank past the boat-house toward the Talbot place, the other turning inland from the river and winding about till it surmounted the high bluff and reached the door of the Hall. There Philip drew rein.

"This is the way to the Hall, you know, Captain Seymour," he said, pointing to the right. Seymour hesitated a moment, and said finally,—

"Yes, I know; the boat-house lies over there, does it not, beyond the turn? I think I will let you go up to the house alone, Philip, and I will go down to the boat-house myself. I will ride back presently."

"Well, then, I will go with you," said Philip. "I really think you are too weak, you know, especially after our long ride to-day, to go alone."

"No, Philip," said Seymour, gently, "I wish to be alone for a few moments."

The boy hesitated.

"Oh, very well," he said, beginning to understand, "I will sit down here on this tree by the road and wait for you. I 'll tie my horse, and you can leave yours here also, if you wish. There is nothing at the Hall, God knows, to make me hurry up there now, since father and Katharine are gone," he continued with a sigh. "Go on, sir, I'll wait. You won't mind my waiting?"

"No, certainly not, if you wish it I shall be back in a few minutes anyway. I just want to see the—the—ah—boathouse, you know."

"Yes, certainly, I understand, of course," replied Philip, bluntly, but carefully looking away, and then dismounting from his tired horse and assisting Seymour to do the same from his.

"Poor old fellow!" he murmured, as he saw the man walk haltingly and painfully up the road and disappear around the little bend.

Left to himself Seymour stumbled alone along the familiar road over which a few short months before he had often travelled light-heartedly by the side of Katharine. As he pressed on, he noticed a man leave the boat-house and climb slowly up the hill. Desirous of escaping the notice of the stranger, who, he supposed, might be the factor or agent of the plantation, he waited in the shadow of the trees until the man disappeared over the brow of the hill, and then he staggered on. A short time after, he stood on the landward end of the little pier, and then his heart stood still for a second, and then leaped madly in his breast, as he seemed to hear a subtle voice, like an echo of the past, which whispered his name, "Seymour! Seymour!" Stepping toward the middle of the pier so that he could see the interior of the boat-house through the inner door, his eyes fell upon the figure of a woman standing in the other doorway looking out over the water, stretching out her hands. The sun had set by this time, and the gray dusk of the evening was stealing over the river. He could not see distinctly, but there was light enough to show him a familiar scarlet cloak at her feet, and although her back was turned to him, he recognized the graceful outlines of her slender figure. It was Katharine, or a dream! But could the dead return again? Had the sea given up her dead indeed?

He could not believe the evidence of his bewildered senses. It might be an hallucination, the baseless fabric of a vision, some image conjured from the deep recesses of his loving heart by his enfeebled disordered imagination, and yet he surely had heard a living voice, "Seymour—John—Oh, my love!" Stifling the beating of his heart, holding his breath even, stepping softly, lest he should affright the airy vision, he staggered to the door and stood gazing; then he whispered one word,—

"Katharine!"

It was only a whisper she heard, but it reached the very centre of her being.

"Katharine," he said softly again, with so much passionate entreaty in his wistful voice, that under its compelling influence she slowly turned and looked toward the other door from whence the sound had come. Then as she saw him, lifting one hand to her head while the other unconsciously sought her heart, she shrank back against the wall, and stared at him in voiceless terror. He dropped unsteadily to his knee, as if to worship at a shrine.

"Oh, do not go away," he whispered. "I know it is only a dream of mine—so many times have I seen you, ever since the night the frigate struck and I sent you to your death on that rocky pass, in that beating sea. Ay, in the long hours of the fever—but you did not shrink away from me then, you listened to me say I love you, and you answered." He stretched out his hand toward her in tender appeal. She bent forward toward him. He rose to his feet, half in terror.

"Kate," he said uncertainly, "is it indeed you? Are you alive again?"

She was nearer now. One glad cry broke from her lips; he was in her arms again, and she was clasped to his heart!—a real woman and no dream, no vision. What the wind could only faintly shadow forth upon her cheek, sprang into life under the touch of his fevered lips, and color flooded them like a wave. Laughing, crying, sobbing, she clung to him, kissed him with little incoherent murmurs, gazed at him, wept over him, kissed him again. All the troubles of the intervening days of sadness and privation faded away from her like a disused chrysalis, and she sparkled with life and love like a butterfly new born.

He that was dead was alive again, he had come back, and he was here! As for him, in fearful surprise, he held her to his breast once more, still unbelieving. She noticed then an empty sleeve, and raised it tenderly to her lips.

"I lost it after an action with the British ship Yarmouth,—it was only a flesh wound at first,—we were long in reaching Charleston; the arm had to be amputated. It was a fearful action."

"I know it," she interrupted; "I was there."

"You, Katharine! Ah, that woman on the ship! I was not deceived then, and yet I could not believe it."

"Yes, 'twas I. I gloried in your bravery, until I saw you lying, as I thought, dead on the deck. Oh, John, the horror of that moment! Then I called you, and you did not answer. Then I wanted to die, too, but now I am alive again, and so happy—but for this;" she lifted the empty sleeve to her lips. "How you must have suffered, my poor darling," she went on, her eyes filling with tears, her heart yearning over him. "And how ill you look, and I keep you standing here,—how thoughtless! Come to the bench here and sit down. Lean on me."

"Nay, but, Kate, you too have suffered. See!" He lifted her arm, the loose sleeve fell back. "Oh, how thin it is, and how smooth and round and plump it was when I kissed it last," he said, as he raised it tenderly again to his lips.

"It is nothing, John. I shall be all right now that you are here. You poor shattered lover, how you must have suffered!" she went on, with a sob in her voice.

"Oh, Katharine, this," looking down at his empty sleeve, "was nothing to what I suffered before, when I thought I had killed you!"

"When you thought you had killed me!" she said in surprise. They were sitting close together now, and she had his hand in both her own. "How—when, was that?"

And then he told her rapidly about the loss of the Radnor, and the idea which her note had given that she was on board of it.

"And you led that ship down to destruction, believing I was on her! How could you do it, John?" she said reproachfully.

"It was my duty, darling Kate," he said desperately.

"And did you love your duty more than me?"

"Love it? I hated it! But I had to do it, dearest," he went on pleadingly. "Honor—you told me so yourself, here, in this very spot; I remember your words; do you not recall them?—'If I stood in the pathway of liberty for a single instant I should despise the man who would not sweep me aside without a moment's hesitation.' Don't you know you said that, Katharine?"

"Did I say it? Ah, but that was before I loved you so, and you swept me aside,—well, I love you still, and, John, I honor you for it too; but I could not do it. You see, I am only a woman."

"Kate, don't say 'only a woman' that way; what else would I have you, pray? But tell me of yourself."

Briefly she recited the events that had occurred to her, dwelling much upon Desborough's courage and devotion to her in the first days of her captivity, the death of Johnson, the burning of Norfolk, the death of Bentley. He interrupted her there, and would fain hear every detail of the sad scene over again, thanking her and blessing her for what she had done.

"It was nothing," she said simply; "I loved to do it; he was your friend. It seemed to bring me closer to you." Then she told him of the foundering of the ship, of the frightful voyage in the boat, and rang the changes upon Desborough's name, his cheerfulness, his unfailing zeal and energy, until Seymour's heart filled with jealous pain.

"Kate," he said at last, "as I came up the road I saw a man leave the boat-house and climb the hill; who was it?"

"It was Lord Desborough, John."

Seymour was human, and filled with human feeling. He drew away from her.

"What was he doing here?" he said coldly. She smiled at him merrily.

"Bidding me good-by. He was made prisoner, of course, by the first soldier we came across after we landed, and has been spending the days of his captivity with us. He was exchanged to-day, and leaves to-night."

"Katharine, he was in love with you!" he said, with what seemed to him marvellous perspicacity.

"Yes, John," she answered, still smiling.

"Was he making love to you here?"

"Yes."

"And you? You praise this man, you like him, you—"

"I think him the bravest man, the truest gentleman in the world—except this one," she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder and her head upon his breast. "No, no; he pleaded in vain. I only pitied him; I loved you. Do not be jealous, foolish boy. No one should have me. I am yours alone."

"But if I had not come back, Kate,—how then?"

"It would have made no difference. I told him so."

Neither of them in their mutual absorption had noticed that a horse had stopped in the road opposite the boat-house, and a horseman had walked to the door and had halted at the sight which met his eyes. Desborough recognized Seymour at once, and he had unwittingly heard the end of the conversation. He was the second. The man was back again. It was true. The gallant gentleman stood still a moment, making no sound, then turned back and mounted his horse, and rode madly away with despair in his heart.

"Oh, Katharine," Seymour said at last, "do you know that I am a poor man now? Lame! See, I can no longer walk straight." He stood up. "Poor surgery after the battle did that."

"The more reason that in the future you should not go alone," she said softly, standing by his side.

"And with but one arm," he continued.

"No, three," she said again, "for here are two."

"Besides, my trading ships have been captured by the enemy, my private fortune has been spent for the cause. I am a poor man in every sense."

"Nay, John, you are a rich man," she said gayly.

"Oh, yes, rich in your love, Katharine."

"Yes, that of course, if that be riches, and richer in honor too; but that's not all."

"What else pray, dearest?"

"Did you know that Madam Talbot had died?" she answered, with apparent irrelevance.

"No, but I am not surprised at it. After her son's death I expected it, poor lady. He loved you too, Kate. We fought about you once," he said; and then he told her briefly of Talbot's end, his burial, the interview he had with Talbot's mother, and the letter.

"I have seen that letter since I returned," she said. "It is at Fairview Hall now awaiting you, awaiting its master like the other things there,—and here. Shall we live there, think you, John?"

"Awaiting me! Its master! Live there! What mean you, Kate?" he cried in surprise.

"Yes, yes, it is all yours," she replied, laughing at his astonishment. "A codicil to her will, written and signed the day before she died, the day after you saw her, left it all to you. It was to have been her son's and then mine; and when she believed us dead, as she had no relatives in this land she left it to you, 'As,' I quote her own words, 'a true and noble gentleman who honors any cause, however mistaken, to which he may give his allegiance.' I quote them, but they are my own words as well. You are a rich man, John, and the two estates will come together as father and Madam Talbot had hoped, after all."

"I am glad, Kate, for your sake."

"It is nothing. I should have taken you, if you had nothing at all."

A young man ran down the little pier and into the house at this moment. "Kate," he cried, "where are you? It is so dark here I can hardly see— Ah, there you are!" he ran forward and kissed her boisterously. "You 'll have to forgive me, I could not wait any longer, Captain Seymour. Father rode down the hill after Lord Desborough galloped by me, and met me there, waiting. Oh, I was so glad to know you were alive again! We felt like a pair of murderers, did n't we, Captain Seymour? Father told me you were here, Kate, and then we waited until now, to give you a little time, and then I could n't stand it any longer, I had to see you. Father's coming too, but I ran ahead."

"Why, Philip," cried Kate, as soon as he gave her an opportunity, kissing him again and laughing light-heartedly as she has not done for days, "how you have grown! You are quite a man now."

"It is entirely due to Philip, Katharine, that I am here," said Seymour. "He commanded the little brig which ran down to the Yarmouth at the risk of destruction, and picked me up. Disobeyed orders too, the young rogue. He brought me into Charleston, nursed me like a woman, and then brought me here. I should have died without him."

"Oh, Philip," said the delighted girl, kissing the proud and happy youngster with more warmth than he had ever known before, "promise me always to disobey your orders. How can I thank you!"

"Very bad advice that. Promise nothing of the kind, Philip; but what are you thanking him for, Kate?" said the cheery voice of the colonel as he came in the door.

"Thanking him for Seymour, father."

"Ah, my boy," said the colonel, grasping his hand, "you don't know how glad I am to see you. It is like one returning from the dead. But it is late and cold and quite dark. Supper is ready, let us go up to the Hall. I shall see the Naval Commissioners in a few days, Seymour, and get you another and a better ship. The country is full of your action; they 've struck a medal for you and voted you prize money and thanks, and all that. I make no doubt I can get you the best ship there is on the ways, or planned. 'T was a most heroic action—"

"Not now, father," said Katharine, jealously, throwing her arm about her lover. "He shall not, cannot, go now; he must have rest for a long time, and he must have me! We are to be married as soon as he is well, and the country must wait. Is it not so, John?"

"What's that?" said the colonel, pretending great surprise.

"Sir," answered Seymour, nervously, "I have something to say to you,—something I must say. Will you give me the privilege of a few moments' conversation with you?"

"Seymour," said the colonel, smiling, "you asked me that once before, did you not?"

"Yes, sir, I believe so."

"And I answered you—how?"

"Why, you said, if my memory serves me, that you—"

"Exactly, that I would see you after supper, and so I will. Come, children, let us go in; this time I warrant you there will be no interruptions."

The father and son turned considerately and walked away, leaving the two lovers to follow.

"You won't leave me, John, will you, now that you have just come back?"

"No, Kate, not now; I am good for nothing until I get strong."

"Good for me, though; but when you do get strong?"

"Then, if my country needs me, dearest, I shall have to go. But I fear there will be no more ships of ours to get to sea, the blockade is getting more strict every day. I can be a soldier, though. No, Kate, do not beg me. My duty to my country constrains me."

"Don't talk about it now, then, John. At least I shall have you for a long time; it will be long before you are well again."

"Yes, I fear so," he said with a sigh.

"Why do you sigh, dearest?"

"Because I want to stay with you, and I ought to welcome any opportunity to enter active service. Think what old Bentley would say."

"Old Bentley did not love you," she replied quickly, with a jealous pang.

"Ah, did he not!" said Seymour, softly.

There was a long pause.

"Well," said Katharine at last, "I suppose nothing will move you if your duty calls you, but I warn you if you get killed again, I shall die. I could not stand it another time," she cried piteously.

"Well, dearest, I shall try to live for you. Now we must go to the Hall."

But, to anticipate, fate would be kinder toward Katharine in the future than she had been in the past and it was many a day before her lover, her husband rather, was able to get to sea; and, as if they had suffered enough, he went through the rest of the war on land and sea scatheless, and was one of those who stood beside the great commander before the trenches of Yorktown, when the British soldiers laid down their arms. But this was all of the future, and now they turned quietly and somewhat sadly to follow the others.

This time it was Katharine who helped Seymour up the hill. Slowly, hand in hand, they walked across the lawn, up the steps of the porch, and toward the door of the Hall. The night had fallen, and the house was filled with a soft light from the wax candles. They paused a moment on the threshhold; Katharine resolutely mastered her fears and resolved to be happy in the present, then, heedless of all who might see, she kissed him.

"Home at last, John," she said, beaming upon him. And there, with the dark behind, and the light before, we may say good-by to them.

THE END